Three weeks into motherhood, Martha was sheer exhaustion personified. She’d just delivered via C-section, her body aching, sleep slipping through her fingers. Alone—her partner had vanished upon learning of the pregnancy, and her parents were gone—she held her newborn daughter, Olivia, in the ER waiting room. The baby’s sudden fever had frightened her into seeking help.
Between comforting shushes and rocking Olivia, Martha felt every stitch in her abdomen protest. Her hazy reflection in the hallway’s fluorescent light was interrupted by a voice: a sharply dressed man in a pristine suit and gold Rolex sneered, “This is a waste of resources.” His contempt was like a cold splash of water.
Martha’s chest tightened. This was no time for judgment—but then, something changed.
A doctor entered, pausing to take in the tense atmosphere. The man’s smirk faltered. The doctor’s next words, sharp and unwavering, sliced through the room—and silenced them all. With authority and empathy, the physician defended Martha and her baby, reminding the man and everyone there that in medicine, there’s no such thing as a misuse when a life needs help.
That intervention shifted the entire room. Martha, frazzled and fading, felt a flicker of strength return. Sometimes, compassion saves more than one life.
